yourself.’
‘Any more backchat. Dromo, and I’ll say he dumped a useless dropout on me, who needs to be reassigned as a dung-shoveller.’
‘Can’t I ask a simple question?’
‘Questions are my job. And if you don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to ask any at the Temple.’
I told him to bring his cudgel in case it was late when we came back. That went down badly. Dromo was afraid of being out in the dark.
I took it to mean my client Faustus rarely went to late-night parties. Intriguing!
My parents owned a few slaves, most of them pitiful purchases with two left feet and ten grades of insolence, so I knew what to expect. Walking with Dromo was tedious. He dragged along, he moaned about how far it was, and I had to keep stopping to make sure he was still there behind me.
Eventually we made it. Back in my home district I cheered up, and when I had a bowl of chickpea broth at a bar counter by the Circus Maximus, I fed Dromo too, which at least made him temporarily stop whingeing.
The Temple of Ceres is on a corner of the Aventine, not far above the corn-dole station. (Pay attention. Ceres is the grain goddess.) Hers is a mighty great shrine with ancient Greek styling, its interior containing three magnificent cult statues funded by fines raised by the aediles. As a centre of plebeian power, this big temple sends a message of defiance over to the aristocratic gods who live on the Capitol. It is presided over by an important Roman priest, the Flamen Cerialis, but it also has a group of female devotees.
Head of the cult was a very old priestess who had been brought to Rome specially from Neapolis because of Campania’s Greek connections. (The rites of Ceres are said to be Greek, though unlike most Romans I have been to Greece and I say that’s pigswill.) Cosying up to the priestess was a dreary bunch of stuck-up local matrons who carried out good works. One of these shrine-nuisances was a bugbear of mine. Just my luck: I ran into her.
An attendant had already told me that the slaves were now at the aediles’ office. To move them out of the religious areas, some dispensation had been arranged, no doubt by the sensible Manlius Faustus. I was heading off to his office when, too late, I ran into the bossiest of Ceres’ cult women. She was a skinny blonde madame who always looked at me as if I was something smelly she had picked up on her expensive sandal. This woman and her brother had inherited a fortune, and if she could have walked around with a placard saying how superior that made her, she would have done it.
‘Laia Gratiana!’ In a previous case of mine, this Laia had made herself thoroughly obnoxious. Neither of us had forgotten. One day I would be compelled to knock her down and jump on her. I could tell you it would be for her own good, but the truth is it would be for my personal pleasure.
‘What are you doing here?’
I explained my business quietly.
‘You had better get on with it then.’
‘Well, thanks for your permission, Laia. I shall do that!’
I left the temple, seething inwardly but trying not to look riled.
‘Cor,’ muttered Dromo, admiringly. ‘You really got up that one’s nose! What have you done to her?’
‘I have no idea.’ I knew perfectly.
‘I bet she’s jealous of you, being so sweet with my master.’ Dromo became excited, thinking he knew a secret. ‘I bet you don’t know who she is, Albia?’
‘I know who she
was
.’
She was Faustus’ ex-wife. Laia Gratiana left him because he had an affair (I had not been surreptitiously delving; Faustus told me himself). It happened ten years ago, but the embittered divorcee still harboured a grudge. I supposed it was subconscious, but she looked highly annoyed to find me assisting Faustus. It would suit her best to see him fail in his task.
Well, that made up my mind. If I had anything to do with this, Manlius Faustus would not fail.
8
T he aediles’ office was close to the temple. I had been there
‘Any more backchat. Dromo, and I’ll say he dumped a useless dropout on me, who needs to be reassigned as a dung-shoveller.’
‘Can’t I ask a simple question?’
‘Questions are my job. And if you don’t get a move on, I won’t have time to ask any at the Temple.’
I told him to bring his cudgel in case it was late when we came back. That went down badly. Dromo was afraid of being out in the dark.
I took it to mean my client Faustus rarely went to late-night parties. Intriguing!
My parents owned a few slaves, most of them pitiful purchases with two left feet and ten grades of insolence, so I knew what to expect. Walking with Dromo was tedious. He dragged along, he moaned about how far it was, and I had to keep stopping to make sure he was still there behind me.
Eventually we made it. Back in my home district I cheered up, and when I had a bowl of chickpea broth at a bar counter by the Circus Maximus, I fed Dromo too, which at least made him temporarily stop whingeing.
The Temple of Ceres is on a corner of the Aventine, not far above the corn-dole station. (Pay attention. Ceres is the grain goddess.) Hers is a mighty great shrine with ancient Greek styling, its interior containing three magnificent cult statues funded by fines raised by the aediles. As a centre of plebeian power, this big temple sends a message of defiance over to the aristocratic gods who live on the Capitol. It is presided over by an important Roman priest, the Flamen Cerialis, but it also has a group of female devotees.
Head of the cult was a very old priestess who had been brought to Rome specially from Neapolis because of Campania’s Greek connections. (The rites of Ceres are said to be Greek, though unlike most Romans I have been to Greece and I say that’s pigswill.) Cosying up to the priestess was a dreary bunch of stuck-up local matrons who carried out good works. One of these shrine-nuisances was a bugbear of mine. Just my luck: I ran into her.
An attendant had already told me that the slaves were now at the aediles’ office. To move them out of the religious areas, some dispensation had been arranged, no doubt by the sensible Manlius Faustus. I was heading off to his office when, too late, I ran into the bossiest of Ceres’ cult women. She was a skinny blonde madame who always looked at me as if I was something smelly she had picked up on her expensive sandal. This woman and her brother had inherited a fortune, and if she could have walked around with a placard saying how superior that made her, she would have done it.
‘Laia Gratiana!’ In a previous case of mine, this Laia had made herself thoroughly obnoxious. Neither of us had forgotten. One day I would be compelled to knock her down and jump on her. I could tell you it would be for her own good, but the truth is it would be for my personal pleasure.
‘What are you doing here?’
I explained my business quietly.
‘You had better get on with it then.’
‘Well, thanks for your permission, Laia. I shall do that!’
I left the temple, seething inwardly but trying not to look riled.
‘Cor,’ muttered Dromo, admiringly. ‘You really got up that one’s nose! What have you done to her?’
‘I have no idea.’ I knew perfectly.
‘I bet she’s jealous of you, being so sweet with my master.’ Dromo became excited, thinking he knew a secret. ‘I bet you don’t know who she is, Albia?’
‘I know who she
was
.’
She was Faustus’ ex-wife. Laia Gratiana left him because he had an affair (I had not been surreptitiously delving; Faustus told me himself). It happened ten years ago, but the embittered divorcee still harboured a grudge. I supposed it was subconscious, but she looked highly annoyed to find me assisting Faustus. It would suit her best to see him fail in his task.
Well, that made up my mind. If I had anything to do with this, Manlius Faustus would not fail.
8
T he aediles’ office was close to the temple. I had been there
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